


The Soul Remains the Same

by LadyZeppelin1111 (QueenBoudica1770)



Category: Led Zeppelin, Real Person Fiction, Rock Music RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Anal Sex, Ancient History, Anthropology, Bisexual Character, Bisexuality, Blow Jobs, Character Death, Crossdressing, F/F, F/M, Feels, Fencing, Fluff, Foursome - F/M/M/M, Group Sex, Heterosexuality, Homosexuality, LGBTQ Themes, Led Zeppelin References, Lesbian Character, M/M, Magic, Male Slash, Multi, Mythology - Freeform, Near Future, Neo-Paganism, Non-Graphic Violence, One True Pairing, Original Character(s), Other, Paganism, Past Lives, Prophecy, Prophetic Visions, Pseudo-History, Reincarnation, Science Fiction, Sex Magic, Swordfighting, True Love, True Mates, Vaginal Sex, magick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-13
Updated: 2020-07-31
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:28:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 14,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25232386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenBoudica1770/pseuds/LadyZeppelin1111
Summary: The Song does indeed remain the same. All through the ages, two souls would meet and love and change the world and people around them in unimaginable ways, destined to be together despite all.They would eventually be born into bodies that would meet and form Led Zeppelin.This is the ramblings of a madman, perhaps.Follows the events of Latter Days and Lost Boy series.WARNING: This deals with reincarnation and some violence and death (not terribly detailed or explicit, but still) so I'm not trying to trigger anyone but this has been stabbing at me all weekend.
Relationships: Jimmy Page/Robert Plant
Comments: 32
Kudos: 35





	1. The Most Ancient of Days

**Author's Note:**

> This is almost written like the Bible or the Silmarillion, sorry for any disjointed grammar or anything lol. The whole thing will hopefully make more sense as I get into it and get near the end, but Robert and Jimmy haven't loved for just one lifetime, but many. They must heed the Master's call.

The Soul Remains the Same

1

The song of the Ages, stretching from the Most Ancient of Dayes to now and beyond in the Future. 

Reincarnation does exist, the transfer of a spirit, of a soul across space and time. Some have things they must do, must accomplish, in each life. Some live a few lives and are taken up to achieve Nirvana, others, have Gifts that they must realize and lessons they must learn before reaching the Eternal Paradise, no matter how good or bad they were during said lives.

Two souls, entwined, always destined to meet and join, all through the different eras of Mankind, in a seemingly eternal dance, to meet and dance to their own music, to have it spill out and affect the world and the people they meet, to effect change either good or bad, yet never static.

Back when Homo Sapiens had first sent tentative colonies to the vast temperate wilderness that was Northwestern Europe, two brand new souls were born, completely untouched by anything including any former life, innocent, into a small tribe living in a cliffside cave that looked down into a beautiful valley.

Two girl children, one slight and dark-haired with unusual piercing green eyes, and one that grew tall and long-limbed, marked with a rarity: blonde curls and sky-blue eyes. The Music existed even then, had existed before there were sentient beings to mark Time, and it took hold of these children, marked them out from an early age. The pair heeded the call, and developed according to their gifts.

The raven-haired Maz became a shaman, and traveled to the spirit world to find answers, cure illness, help the tribe. She played a carved bird bone flute most skillfully, was able to bring onlookers to tears or laughter.

The golden-haired Tala became a drummer of the sacred drum, and a fearsome warrior of her people. She protected those that couldn’t protect themselves. That such a pair existed seemed remarkable to be born to the same tribe, but as they grew to adulthood, it became obvious that they had eyes only for each other. They spurned the advances of any man, preferring to roam the steppes and the valley hand in hand, following a music only they could hear.

Three decades of life they lived, doing what they were fated to do, and most accepted that they were joined together, but there were those that envied their talents and fertile, beautiful bodies that to some, were going to waste from their girlish infatuations.

And so, the darkness of human hearts was laid bare, doing the evil work of negativity, of chaos, and the men who coveted these women, these souls blessed with the Music, moved against them. They were taken, and given an ultimatum, to renounce one another and join with one of the eager young men.

They both refused.

Spears and clubs were raised in threat, in anger, and Tala fought and injured several, until Maz looked upon her love and said, “It will be all right, my dear. This won’t be the end, I know this, there are other lives and places than this. Do you trust me?”

The blonde warrior nodded her head yes, and so both went to their doom without spilling any more blood. But Maz was right; it wasn’t the end, but the beginning of a long and fruitful dance that would come down from times most remote.

These souls were reborn some millennia later, but still much before recorded history, out on post Ice Age steppes, after enjoying a respite from the mortal plane. Ruaz was a slender boy with thick black hair and precocious green eyes, and Kira a tall blonde girl who loved to run with the animals in the plains. The Music called to them, and their spirits answered. Ruaz always seemed to know things, and hear things that weren’t there, and tempered Kira’s rashness with clear logic.

They married, of course, when they came of age, and were happy. Kira used the lessons from her mate Ruaz to entice one of the steppe horses to her, and she leapt upon its back and rode the mare. The people saw her clinging to the creature’s neck, whooping in excitement as her yellow hair streamed out behind her. The tribe, who were nomads who lived out in the open and so were always vulnerable, soon domesticated the horse, and their lives, indeed the world was changed.

Kira and Ruaz had many children, children that also could hear the Music, the infinite knowledge and inspiration for all the creative arts, and passed it to their children. The couple lived to old age, and were buried together when their time came, their hands clasped together and their heads turned toward each other in an eternal kiss.

This still was not the end, for the Music was Master, and always had designs of its own.

Centuries after that, a Raven Priest met a Hunter, who later in life became a Sun King.


	2. The Sun and the Moon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The tale of the Sun Lord and the Raven Priest. Based a lot off Celtic mythology and the research of Marija Gimbutas, who found the Old European culture was rife with magicians. Right up our alley, eh?
> 
> NOTE: A deer is slain for a pagan ceremony. Much feelings also.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The meeting of a pair that would be remembered in future lives. 
> 
> Also, who knew Robert actually was a Golden God?

This set of lives were ones that images of reverberated down into glimpses, in their future selves. It was, one James Patrick Page, born in Surrey, found fascinating, intriguing, and beautiful. More details were passed down, and as the Stag Lord and Shaman held particularly interesting symbolic meaning to said James Page, who served a Master that was the Music, there is more to tell.

Korr was known as the Raven Priest, as his name in his people's long-dead language reflected, a young man that had dedicated himself to things of the spirit, things unseen, secrets of the Earth. His people had lived in the primeval forests for time out of mind, and would later be classified as Old European, a pre-Celtic people, the first ones to scratch symbols onto rocks, which later researchers would call 'tokens.' These future folk didn't know, that they were not for mundane use, they were for magic. High magick. Before an alphabet had ever been invented, these tribes had devised a system of symbols that represented words, phrases, and ideas. 

Korr carried many such tokens, and they were used for spells and good luck. So they lived, and hunted the last remnants of the great Irish Elk (with an antler span wider than a man is tall) that was fast disappearing, performed their seasonal ceremonies, and fought with rival tribes occasionally. And so it went, as the generations rolled on.

Until a new group of folk arrived, these a tall, harsh-spoken, golden-haired and aggressive people, who wanted land of their own to hunt in. The smaller-statured, dark haired, stealthy tribe of Korr fell back from these strange ones, afraid, but the lands they were relegated to were not as rich, not as many fruit and berries, the hunting much poorer. Korr took it upon himself to negotiate with these newcomers, and waited along one of the known paths the yellow-haired folk would traverse while hunting, unmoving, silent. He didn't have to wait long, and picked up through his bare feet on the soft earth that there was the pounding of hoofbeats, as the smaller red deer (though still quite large) were driven towards the shaman, who was dressed only in kilt, bird bone jewelry, and his long, wavy dark hair. He was kneeling, eyes closed, trying to think of what he should do.

Deer cleared the underbrush and thundered toward him, a good 15 or so, and he stood and quietly looked at them. The parted around him, a wave breaking upon a rocky shore, and a man emerged right after, spear in hand, a halo of golden curls framing an angular but attractive face. He was dressed in buckskin trousers, moccasins, a leather parka that was laced up the front for easy dressing or removal, and he nearly barreled over Korr in his haste to chase the cervids. 

The pair stared at one another, surprised, shocked, but curious. The rest of the hunting party arrived but were waved back by the first man, who couldn't take his eyes off the strange sight of this dark-haired, slender, short figure, wearing only a cloth wrapped around his waist that fell to his knees, bird bone necklace and other animal bones threaded in thick hair black and shiny as a raven's wing.

The blond man was Herne, the Hunter, the one later Celts worshipped as the Lord of the Forest, in their imagery wearing antlers and golden armbands, a symbol of positive male energy. Korr stepped slowly forward, hands empty and palms-up to show he meant no harm, and embraced the larger Herne. He accepted the embrace without hesitation. Green eyes stared into blue ones; the Sun had met the Moon, and despite the Sun's radiance he was enamored of the mystery and the beauty of the Moon.

It didn't take long at all for the two to become friends, and for the newcomers to halt their invasion, living together with the older tribe. It wasn't long after the tribes merging into one larger tribe that the pair became lovers. They heard music that nobody else could understand, though they enjoyed watching and listening to them. Herne's voice was strong and fair to hear, and he sang for the unified tribe and for Korr, who stomped his feet and played a ritual rattle that spoke to the Gods. The Music spoke to them, and they listened, as they forged the younger, aggressive magick of Herne's tribe with the older, mysterious magick of Korr's with it's lore and magic tokens into a whole new system, one that would be passed down in subsequent millenia.

In honor of the Great Stag, the Irish Elk that was dying out (and to commemorate their first meeting), one night a ceremony was enacted to keep them on the Earth a while longer and to ensure the fruitfulness of the land and their women's wombs. Antlers of the Red Deer were affixed to a headdress that was tied onto Herne's head, and he was clad only in armbands and necklace. A large herd of Red Deer was driven toward where an equally bare Korr awaited him in a clearing some distance away. He chased the group of cervids, a stone knife in his hand, and his long legs pumped and strained, carrying him to his destination.

The deer burst forth from the foliage and came upon a kneeling Korr, who slowly stood, unafraid as they passed by him. He could feel the wind as they rushed past him but he didn't flinch, instead raising his hand to the last one, a young stag, and uttered a phrase that brought the deer up short. He stood staring at the shaman, ears forward, all his attention on Korr. That's when Herne strode forth, came up behind the stag, who too late realized his death was behind him. He swung his large head with its many tines of antlers around, barely missing the blond man, who took hold of the rack with his free hand, and balanced the stone dagger in his other hand.

"Now!" shouted Korr.

The knife, having been skillfully knapped razor-sharp, slid across the animal's throat. Crimson spilled out over Herne's hand. He struck well, having hit one of the major arteries, and the beast bled out quickly. His hand still gripping an antler, he lowered it gently to the ground, where the blood seeped into the soil, ritually and practically feeding the fertility of the earth. "Thank you for your sacrifice," Herne whispered to the deceased deer. "You will feed my people and our Mother Earth." He dipped his fingers in the blood and marked his forehead, then went to his mate and anointed him as well.

The dark-haired Raven Priest stepped into the warm, long arms of the Stag Lord, and consummated the joining of Gods and Man, Man and the Earth, calling for the protection of their unified peoples as their bodies joined under the light of the Moon.

Because of the joining of their tribes, they were now a large group, which took over other territories, but the Sunlord eventually was called the Sun King, the Lord of the Forests. The people loved him. That is, until they didn't. When he stopped hearing the call of the Music, when he only listened to himself in his arrogance. Herne clashed with Korr, who tried to speak for the people, from either subtribe. 

Korr's hair was shot with silver now, and the golden curls of Herne had dimmed to grey, and they had never had discord between them. Until now. Many years had they lived and loved and fought enemies and welcomed friends together, but Herne had closed his heart to the Music. His will was law, being the first leader of such a large span of people, he listened to those who didn't have his best interest, or the interest of the tribe, at heart. They fed his ego and set enmity against a group of Korr's original people.

Herne, in his hubris, raised his bow and spear against people he had sworn, with Korr, to protect. He was still hale, still tall and unbent despite the five plus decades he'd lived. The Sun King went forth himself to exert his will, and found that he'd been deceived. Those sycophants, seeing his usefulness draw to an end, stabbed him multiple times from behind with their flint and obsidian knives. But he was not so easy to kill. Herne turned to them and bludgeoned with his spear, ran them through, cast them down as he bled. Those remaining fled, leaving the king to sink to his knees as his strength left him.

The Raven Priest found his mate swaying on his knees, swooped in to catch him in his arms as he buckled. Korr ended up sitting on the ground, the back of Herne's greying head against Korr's chest, gazing up at the one he loved most of all. "I am sorry. I was too arrogant, I thought my way is best," he said to the shaman.

Korr smiled, that dazzling smile he hadn't seen in so long because of their differences, and it made his heart glad. "It's all right, beloved. Just lay still."

"Don't let anyone else be hurt by my foolishness. I don't wish to go where you are not."

"I will follow soon enough," smiled Korr through his tears. "I am an old man too, you know. But remember: this is not the end. It is never the end. We will see each other again."

"I know," Herne said, his voice dipping as the end drew near. Korr squeezed his hand, bent and kissed his mate. "Do you..do you hear that? It's the Music. I missed hearing that."

"Yes," sobbed Korr. "I hear it." He was still smiling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the feels, but this has been moving me. Kudos, comments, etc appreciated. love you guys!


	3. The Magic Isle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we have a tie in with a famous legend from the past.
> 
> Robert as avenging Dark Ages warrior, yo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a gay ass Dark Ages Celtic British couple raising a kid and killing people. Normal stuff.

Many lives came and went before the next era we now find ourselves, but as we know, the Song Remains the Same. 

A young man travels on foot through the Summer Country, but no bandits offer any insults as he is small and poor and likely not worth the effort, so he makes his way unimpeded to Afallach, the Isle of Apples, later called Avalon. He is brought up short as the grassy ground gives way to marshland, then deeper water. Baffled, he circles the waters in dismay until he comes to what appears to be a small dock, decorated with a post and bell. The lad shrugs, rings the bell and sits down to wait.

After some time through the fog, the youth spots a boat being rowed, and a second figure standing at the prow, straight and proud. When they dock, the standing one strides to the young man who has gotten to his feet. For long moments they take the measure of one another.

The lad has slid off his hood, revealing long wavy hair, coal-black, close-trimmed beard, mossy green eyes. His face was round, nose small, his full lips pursed. He couldn't be more than twenty years, dressed for travel but shabbily, the cloak and boots raggedy and of leather that had seen better days, the tunic of homespun. He is thin but moves deliberately and gracefully. Those eyes, though, were full of intelligence, curiosity, and spirit, not the eyes of a simple beggar.

The man from the boat was tall, head and face shaved but for a mohawk of unruly, bouncy cornsilk waves, sharp blue eyes, thin lips and proud nose. He's wrapped in a fur-trimmed mantle, leather cuirass, sword buckled at his side. He looked to be ten to fifteen years the lad's senior, still in the fullness of his strength but experienced, and moved like a warrior. "Just you, boy?" the man asked gruffly. Despite the abrasive manner, the voice was high-toned and smooth as honey, lilting even.

"Aye, just me."

"Not here to beg?"

"No!" the younger man answered quickly. "I come as a supplicant to the Magic Isle."

"You're of Pictish blood, are you not?" the taller man queried. "One of those Faery people that harry both Tribesmen and Romans?"

"I've done nothing to anyone," he answered indignantly. "I have no family left and wish to learn from the Lady. I seek knowledge. I seek magick."

"Your name?"

The lad looked even more embarrassed. "Morgan."

"As in the Raven Goddess? You were named the feminine version of the name?"

"Aye, it's my name, what of it?" he asked crossly.

The other man chortled, "Nothing, lad-with-a-girl's-name. Come, then, Morgan." He gestured to the boat, and swallowing down fear, the lad stepped into the boat and seated himself. The tall man sat beside Morgan, uncomfortably close for the supplicant. The boatman began rowing, propelling them deeper into the mists. "I am R," said the warrior. "I guard the Isle and the lands surrounding. My family has owned these lands for generations."

"Just R? What is your full name?"

"That is for you to not know. Perhaps one day you'll learn it. Perhaps not," he answered cryptically.

"All right then, man-with-only-a-letter-for-a-name," sassed Morgan, then was instantly sorry. The bigger man could easily pitch him into the waters, or run a sword through him.

R threw his head back and laughed, flashing dimples and a smile that could captivate a person made of stone. He turned friendlier eyes to the younger man, eyes that looked him pointedly up and down. Electricity seemed to flash between the pair, leaving Morgan excited but with a feeling he was coming home, even though he'd never been there before. 

So that was the meeting between the brother of the Lady of Afallach and future druid/wizard Morgan Pretani. The lady in question was one Anet, three years older than her brother R (and heir to the lands and titles according to Celtic law), who took on Morgan as a learner. He also became the father of her child Rianna, who had a daughter called Ygraine, who bore a daughter named Morgan and a son, Arthur.

What history covered up was that R and Morgan of the Pretani were joined, body, mind, and soul, despite Morgan's short-lived affair with the Lady. She did not take being spurned for her brother, of all things, well. Six months after the birth of Rianna, the babe sporting wavy dark auburn hair and green eyes, she ejected the father of her child from the Isle for crimes against her family's territory, which was a lie--the truth being she was jealous of the way he was when he was with R. What she didn't expect, though, was that R went with him. Even though as brother to heiress and sorceress Anet he was charged as the protector of the lands and estate, and the one expected to help raise and educate his sister's children, he forfeited it all to not be separated from Morgan. 

The first night away from the Isle found R feeling set adrift, staring up at the stars as they slept out in the open, and shivered despite it not being cold. Morgan snuggled closer to him, grateful for his presence, his protection, his loving heart. "I will see my daughter again," he whispered to the night. "This I promise."

"She's my daughter, too. We should be raising her together," sighed R, dejected. "Anet is too petty and hard-hearted. Since we're cast out alone in this harsh, wide world, I shall tell you my true name." In truth she was a beautiful, feminine version of her younger sibling, but she lacked his heart and passion.

"I am honored."

"It's Rigovet."

Morgan sounded it out. "The Little King," he spoke.

Rigovet laughed bitterly. "Aye, our parents called me that for my golden curls and regal bearing, even as a small child. Again, another cause for my sister, the eldest and the one who inherits, to be envious of me."

"I am glad to know your real name, and glad of what you have given up for me. I love you."

"Oh, my heart, I love you so," murmured R, squeezing the smaller man to him.

Not for the last time, the darkness in human hearts brought forth chaos and hardship.

That night, alone under the stars, there was only love, as the older man took the eager younger one as they had done to each other time and again, making love and bringing joy amid the pain and sadness that had been given to them.

They made their way south, to take a ship to Lesser Brittany, where there were still free Pictish and Celtic tribes they could stay with. They sang for their supper and bed, Morgan being an accomplished harpist and Rigovet a fine singer. For them, the Music provided, as they listened and understood.

When Rianna was ten summers old, her mother was overthrown by an uprising of angry citizens, people who had been taxed mercilessly and worked till they dropped, and the organizers? Rigovet, whose face was now lined and hair greying due to his hard experiences, and Morgan, whose round face was still youthful but he'd chopped most of his lustrous hair off.

"She's mine! You can't have her!" Anet screamed at the hardened pair as they advanced on the cruel druidess, keeping the frightened girl behind her. They found her in her reception room dressed in her finest, as if she was performing a ceremony. The tall woman lunged at her own brother, dagger in hand, but Morgan's voice ringing out, strong and clear, gave her pause. He was laying a curse upon her, the ingrate! She turned to the Pictish man to attack him, but R took hold of her long, slender arms, pulled her shrieking and flailing away, and gave her to the rabble.

Morgan knelt and blocked the line of sight, stared into the large green eyes of the girl. "Don't look," he said softly. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry--"

Rianna tried to hold back her tears, but said, "She was, she was mean. To everyone. So cold, so angry," she sobbed. "That's why everyone hates her, isn't it?"

"Something like that," answered the dark-haired man. "I'm here, I won't let anything happen to you, I swear it."

"I know, Father."

"You know me?"

"Yes. I hear the Music much louder when you came close. People around here said you heard the Music of the Gods. Is that my uncle?"

"Yes, child," Rigovet replied, and also got on his knees to look her in the face. "How I missed you! You were just a baby last I saw you."

"You're the one Mother hated most of all. But, but you...you have it, too! The Song, the Gift!" She cried happily. "You can't be bad, can you?"

"No, Rianna. We're going to take care of you," vowed R. "And take care of Afallach."

The mob pitched Anet from the Tor, the tower at Afallach, and left her body floating in the waters, though at Rigovet's insistence it was fished out and the sorceress given a proper burial.

And so there were two kind Lords of the Magic Isle instead of a cold Lady.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyone still reading?
> 
> I think there's room for some more lives to explore.
> 
> Maybe some visions, prophecies...who knows.


	4. Upon a Soul a Little Rain  Must Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Getting closer and closer to our time...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Renaissance ushered in a whole new way of art and thinking, that really wasn't new, but a re-finding of old Greek and Roman knowledge that had been suppressed by the morals of the day. It was kicked off by an Italian artist, with long curls and blue eyes...

The Song ebbs, flows, rises and falls, turns in around itself, repeats at times, but it never ends. What is old is sometimes made new again, after being forgotten for years. 

The visual arts of the late Middle Ages had become stale, losing the tune of the Song, the art of Europe rejecting perspective and naturalism to focus on more heavenly subjects. The pieces, though colorful, were of religious topics with thick lines, flat, with little thought given to proportion, to distinguish them from the sensual, sinful works of the Greeks and Romans. It became known as the Italo-Byzantine style, which meant works were heavily stylized and slapping thick layers of gold as backgrounds was used liberally.

An artist emerged from Florence that we only know now a Cimabue, who heard the call and bucked tradition by following the Master's call, to open hearts and minds to the beauty of the natural world and the human body. Officially, he painted the accepted tried and true subjects, Mary, Mother of Jesus, Jesus himself, saints, angels and the like, but with realistic shading, the beginnings of perspective and proper proportion, more natural colors. It was a shock to early contemporaries to see more humanistic, natural forms, with expressive eyes and flowing waves of hair.

Cimabue's own hair was long, dark, and curly, and looking in a mirror he tried to represent what he saw in his works, though his eyes were stormy blue. Unofficially at first, his favorite subject was not religious, but Carlotta, the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen, with catlike hazel eyes and full, rosy, pouting lips. And not only that, but he painted her nude, quite often, practicing and practicing to make his art as authentic a representation as possible. That she was his wife certainly helped, but he would've made her the star of his private collection regardless if she was unattached or married.

She encouraged him, pleased with how much better to her eye her husband's work was than the other artists. That is, when she wasn't playing her harp or her lute, with delicate, slender fingers more suited to such pursuits than to menial work. She was much more slender than the fashion of the time, plump, rosy-cheeked, rotund women being the epitome of beauty at the time, but she was still gorgeous, with her raven colored hair done in ringlets and pearl earrings to contrast with her dark hair. Five years into the marriage Carlotta finally became pregnant, and Cimabue couldn't have been happier. He knew her slender, delicate frame didn't lend itself well to pregnancy (according to the wisdom of the day) but he was overjoyed that he would have a child, something of both of them.

Women clucked their tongues as Carlotta began to show quite early, stating that a man with as tall and athletic a build as Cimabue had no business getting a child on a lady so petite, but the couple ignored them, floating through life in their happiness. He sketched her as her pregnant body expanded despite her protesting she felt like a pig, and did several paintings of her face, attempting to recreate the happy glow she sported.

And then, just like that, Cimabue's life changed. Carlotta didn't survive her labor, and neither did the child, a boy. He would've had a son, but the child was too large and her hips too narrow, it seems. He was devastated, absolutely flattened by the tragedy. He sank into depression, didn't touch a paintbrush for months, closed his mind to the Music.

While rooting through his things in his villa one day, he came upon a painting he'd done of Carlotta, nude, with a faint grin, the green-brown eyes sparkling mischievously, and burst into tears. After the weeping subsided, he thought such a sublime expression needs to be enjoyed by the public. And so he did another painting, this one of the Mother of Jesus with the Christ Child, with that playful look. It was a success, folks were amazed at the detail and realistic look of the piece, and he was made offers for more work, which he turned down. Something held him back, and he didn't feel the time was right.

He wanted to see his family, and so set out from Florence to visit relations. On his way there he passed by a farm, where a small boy was playing, it seemed. Upon closer inspection, the child was scratching the likeness of the sheep he was watching with a rock, onto a smoother stone. They were so lifelike, Cimabue was amazed, and something told him he must train the boy. The child's father told him his name was Giotto, and was convinced by Cimabue to allow the boy to live with him and train to be an artist. So the Song shifted, accepting this new practitioner into its melody.

This was a good thing, as Giotto when he reached adulthood surpassed Cimabue his mentor, laying the groundwork for what would be termed the Renaissance, a Revival of the arts, history, and sciences that gave birth to the Modern Age. Giotto thought of Cimabue as more than a teacher, he was like a second father, and Giotto the son that was taken from him.

And so the Wheel rolls on...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, love you all! Hope everyone is well.
> 
> I wonder what our pair will get into next lol...


	5. 2 Women and a Sword

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two women, a sword, lots of killing, and illicit love. Shivering in antici......pation yet?
> 
> A female fencer, merchant's daughter turned kleptomaniac, and a convent burning. Sounds like a picnic!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based of the real but stranger than fiiction life of La Maupin, female duelist who ravaged Europe with her sexual and martial shenanigans. 
> 
> I think Robert would approve.

And the Wheel (of time) rolls on... 

To those who have Gifts given by the Gods, the world can be a restraining place, and those ones will buck the norms of their time and place, choosing to follow their hearts or some path laid out that only they, and those like them, can see.

Her name was Julie d'Aubigny, her father the secretary for a certain Count d'Armagnac, who was the Master of Horse to the French King. She was tall, slender, with strawberry blonde curls and big blue eyes, but she was not raised as a lady or pampered. No indeed, she was raised with the other pages her father trained in the ways of the sword, and she learned well. Her father was notorious for spending his free time in bars, brothels and the like, and she developed a taste for the same.

She was so wild as a teenager, in fact, that the Count (even after tasting the fruits of her passion and was delighted, but there were appearances to maintain) married her to a vastly boring nobleman who packed her off to his equally dull rural estate at the boisterous age of 17. It did not take long for the Music to manifest itself, and coupled with her complete lack of restraint or decent upbringing, led her to run off with a fencing assistant named Serannes, and tarnished what bit of reputation the teenager had left. She cared not for the conventions or wagging tongues of society, choosing to dress in men's clothing and give exhibitions of her fencing talent for money and/or liquor. Julie found she could sing quite well and her and Serannes supplemented their income by singing in taverns and at fairs, for despite her wild, uncontrolled nature, the Music provided as she heeded it.

This sufficed for a time until she grew tired of Serannes, who had no further ambition than the next pub, the next town, the next crust of bread to eat. She found herself posing as a gentleman swordfighter, her brash behavior and martial skills fooling those into thinking she was a man. She was attending a ball dressed as such, having scraped together a fine jacket, shirt, cravat, and breeches, in which to impress ladies, as she had grown tired of men after her tiresome husband and listless layabout Serannes.

Then she saw her. A perfect beauty; porcelain skin, green eyes, heavy dark eyebrows, pitch-black hair, delicious looking red lips. She wasn't born nobility from her bearing and slightly more conservative dress, but the most amazing and interesting looking woman in the whole place. She was looking idly around the place, oddly not dancing with anyone yet, so Julie approached.

"Mademoiselle, I hate to see such a lovely creature as you standing all alone at such a festive occasion," Julie spoke by way of introduction, and took her slender hand and kissed it.

"It is by choice, monsieur," she sniffs, but is flattered by the attention. She comes from a family of merchants, with plenty of money but no title or prestige to go with it as of yet. "Papa drags me around these functions hoping for a good word from someone who can grant him a higher position. And the men my father entertains as suitors for me, are positively bothersome. Marie de Remey, Monsieur--?"

"d'Aubigny" Julie says simply. "Would you care for something to drink?" At her assent, the swordswoman gets two flutes of wine and returns to Marie. They sip their glasses and smile at one another, then Julie says, "You are so ravishing, I would take you away from here just to put a smile on your face. Alas, I don't want to ruin such innocence."

"Innocent, am I?" the shorter woman raised her eyebrow. "Are you missing these?" Marie held up the few coins Julie was carrying in her pocket, and grinned. "You didn't even notice, Mademoiselle. Yes, I know."

"You know, you artful little thief?" chuckled Julie. "Why did you let me continue, then?"

"Because you are the most beautiful man, or woman, I've ever seen," Marie whispers to her, and at Julie's outstretched, waiting hand, she drops the coins, then her hand.

Julie pulls the other woman close, surprised at the girl's forwardness, and how desire had just rose up in her, spreading out from her belly. "You're the most beautiful creature I've ever seen, or ever will see." The pair locked eyes, drinking in the sight of one another, like they'd never seen another human being before, like they'd known each other for..ever. Without thinking, Julie bent and put her lips to Marie's, and that spark raced back and forth between them.

When they parted, both were nearly panting with need, but had to take breaths to compose themselves in the midst of the ball. Suddenly a hand grabbed Julie's upper arm, and spun her around to face an angry court official. "Monsieur, what is the meaning of this affront? That is the lady I am courting!"

"Oh, Philippe, stop. I've told you I'm not interested," scoffed Marie.

"Roaming sellswords can't just walk into parties and kiss spoken-for ladies!"

Julie draped her hand on her sword handle, her left eye twitching. "Do you wish to decide this between gentlemen?" she asked pointedly.

"Aye, I will have satisfaction, sir," he snapped, and turned crisply on his heel and made for the exit. Julie, with her long stride, soon caught up to him, looking back at Marie who scrambled after, and winked.

In less than five minutes the tall, ginger-haired woman had Phillipe run through, bleeding out in the back garden of the host's estate. Marie stared dumbly at the dying man on the ground, then at the golden goddess, then back again. "I am sorry, Marie," she sighed. "But it had to be done."

"That is the most exciting, most amazing thing I've ever seen! Your skill--it's legendary!" Marie praised, not even sorry someone had just lost their life. 

Julie smiled her wide, dimpled smile, and led her new love to an empty room to get to know one another...a lot better.

Marie's father found out about the affair, and that it was with a woman, which was possibly worse, and had her bundled off to a convent. If he couldn't marry her off, which she was tainted now so that would be difficult, then he would at least preserve a bit of honor and give her to God, so that perhaps her soul could be saved.

Julie had other designs.

She applied to be a nun there and lo and behold, she was accepted, and resumed their illicit trysts, loving each other in fits and furtive couplings, until Marie spoke her fears about being caught. The retribution in a place of God would be harsh and swift. 

Then one of the Sisters died of old age. Then the dark haired girl thought up a plan.

Julie took the body and placed it in Marie's room as a decoy, and set fire to the convent. This wasn't something the Music had called for to happen, but as it simply is, it went along for the rollercoaster ride. The pair fled the burning convent and went on the road, singing and performing to get by, until Julie was accepted by an opera house.

One of the managers declared she had the most beautiful and powerful voice he'd ever heard--a good thing in the days before electrical amplification. She took La Maupin as her stage name, which is what she became known as centuries later. 

The pair fought and fucked their way across Europe, a law unto themselves. Marie it seems despite her father's wealth, was a chronic pilferer, and a skilled one at that. What couldn't be gotten by legal means, she could be counted on to procure. At one point because her father and the King of France were looking for them, after a few years of decadence, she went back to her father, fearing that her wife would meet a grisly end. She knew La Maupin wouldn't accept it, so she left early one morning with a note explaining herself, and went back as a repentant daughter. 

She was duly locked in her bedroom and a priest sent for. 

Julie, meanwhile, did what any red blooded hot bisexual swordswoman would do--she cried, first, but then she forged a trail of bodies, broken hearts (both male and female) and depleted beer supplies all across Germany. Nothing ever filled the hole that Marie left, however. She had taken up with some Baronet or other, had then scared him to the point he wanted rid of her, and had one of his servants offer her 4,000 francs to begone. 

She kicked the fellow down the stairs.

She was in an argument with him when a shadowy figure slipped inside the manse, making its way toward the raised voices.

"Fight me, then, you dog!" Entreated an enraged Julie, brandishing her sword. The baronet held up his hands and declared he was much too weak to take her on, and to please get out of his life. The woman raised her sword, but quick as a snake the man pulled a pistol and fired, a sharp crack echoing in the enclosed space.

Marie burst through the bedroom door, hood thrown back, dressed as a young man. She looked down at La Maupin clutching her chest, blood seeping through her fingers, teeth clenched. "Bastard!" cried the dark-haired girl, took up Julie's sword, and came at the man with it.

He screeched, dropped the pistol as it was single shot anyway, and tried to scramble away. The smaller, faster girl overtook him and ran him through in the hallway, just as she'd seen her lover do countless times. She returned to the bedroom to find Julie breathing but eyelids fluttering. "My love, my darling, stay with me!" Marie cried. 

When Julie opened her eyes, she was laying in a bed in a boarding-house, all bandaged and sore. Marie had come back to her, having been used to doing as she wished, couldn't take being a prisoner of her father and escaped, and tracked Julie down. "I couldn't bear to be apart from you," she whispered to the woman with the red-gold hair.

"I am so glad, and so grateful. Life wasn't worth anything without you in it." She held Marie against her good shoulder, knowing that this was meant to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seriously I hardly made up anything at all, Julie is a wild gal lol.
> 
> Normal rules apply, sausage, kudos, suggestions, etc appreciated!


	6. Let the Music Be Your Master

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jimmy Page has a vision. 
> 
> Sex magick ritual, M/M/M/F
> 
> Magic
> 
> You've been warned

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok so this veered into this direction, it doesn't mean we can't visit more past lives, or maybe some sex smutty smut filth, cause I'm getting in that kinda mood lol.

1967, Pangbourne Boathouse Inner Sanctum

Jimmy floated, weightless, tied to his sweat-slicked body only by the excruciating pleasure being wrought upon it. Simultaneously seeing these heavenly visions and being racked with carnal pleasure was almost more than the Yardbirds guitarist can bear, and in the specially made up bed where he lay in the arms of two men and a woman, he both sobbed and laughed giddily all while he babbled seeming nonsense. The Sex Magick Ritual was nearing its close, and Jimmy Saw flashes, images, of people and places he'd never seen before.

In order to get there, Thelema states a person must be stimulated sexually for prolonged periods of time without orgasm, over and over until they reach a waking sleep, their consciousness hovering in a different state where they achieve oneness with the Gods.

After imbibing a brew of mind altering herbs, the three fellow practitioners began working on the dark-haired man in his spell room, disrobing him, slowly, sensuously, as the drugs took effect. Jimmy stood, languidly watching as Tristan knelt and stroked the guitarist's stiffening member. He was Jimmy's age, blond, short but muscular. He'd wondered what he looked like under the baggy clothes he normally wore, and he wasn't disappointed. Drew, with his chestnut brown hair and flashing dark eyes, directed the whole thing. He was older and had been a follower of Thelema for many years. He had redhead, Anna, step forward and kiss Jimmy as Tristan pleasured him with his mouth. She threaded her thin arms around the initiate's neck, felt him moan softly into her mouth.

At some point Jimmy became aware he'd been placed in the bed, where hands and mouths were all over his pale, slim body and he felt like his body moved in slow motion. Drew was riding him now, had sank easily down Jimmy's erection and bounced slowly, always so slowly and deliberately, up and down the guitarist's pole. In passing Jimmy thought he'd never been with a man that way before, but he wanted to know, wanted the Ritual, as a seeker he had to go where he was directed, right? So now here he was in the throes of drug-fueled magick, being fucked by two men and a woman, and it didn't faze him. 

Hours later, he reaches that state, floating in nothingness.

"I see a...a warrior, golden as the Sun, power and wisdom go with him. No, wait, he's now a Goddess, her step sure, sword in hand as she travels! Nnngh! Oh, it feels so, so good!" Jimmy cried. Anna was astride him now, undulating her enticing, wide hips just so, inching him toward his ultimate release. Jimmy's head now lay on Drew's bare thighs, the older man cradling it gently. "Now I see, I see.."

"What do you see, Jim?" Prompts Anna.

Jimmy sees a boy, a youth not even grown yet, but he's strong and beautiful, still gangly and clumsy, but what a man he will make. His nose is almost too big for his angular face, the lips nearly too thin, but those large, expressive eyes. Blue eyes. He was perfect to Jimmy, perfect in his imperfections. Golden hair, shoulders still widening as he is still growing, calloused worker's hands. Long, lean, athletic body, a smile that could light up the Universe with its brilliance.

"The lad, he's the Sun, the Sun, and I am the Moon. See his antlers? He runs with the deer, and I hold the power of Seeing, as he is Life. Ahh, ah, so close, so close…"

"Bring him there, it's time," instructs Drew. Tristan caresses the writhing form as Anna fucks him faster, harder. 

"We are, he and I, we are one, we are one," Jimmy gasps out, his whole body tensing. "Oh, the mountains beyond the sands, the great desert, there the old silver haired mage goes, his last journey, the King beside him, cloaked in power, his king, his love. The wizard, bent and stooped, the doors open without him touching, there are screens everywhere with images, the King commands things to work with just his loud voice, oh, the Mage will sleep the eternal sleep, but the King is with him, the Stag King...Ohh, I'm coming, I'm coming!" he screamed out, filling the girl with his hot, thick seed.

She slid off him, his cock now softening from the tremendous release.

"He'll sleep now," Drew says, and Jimmy, though his body won't respond, is strangely aware of much of what the others are saying. He barely feels hands gently on him, moving him, cleaning him up and tucking him into the bed. 

"Do you understand anything of what he Saw?" Anna asked.

"Sounded like a cross between Star Trek and Tolkien," opined Tristan.

"Or the coming of a mixture of King Arthur and Jesus," the girl added.

"It's someone he's going to meet, I think," Drew mused. "He was more lucid, more coherent than many usually are, than even I was. A golden hunter, could be symbolic, but I think he's going to meet someone very important, someone I think he's known in past lives."

"Will he remember? Should we tell him?" wondered the other man.

"I don't know how much he'll remember," answered the older man honestly. "But he does need to know about this one he's to encounter. The other things sound like either ravings or something of the future, which is probably best he didn't know. He's more gifted, more powerful than I imagined. It's probably best if he didn't go any further."

"But why?" Tristan asked.

"He's not a strong man, and such a loner, often delving into such as this regularly leads to madness, violence, sickness, and death in those not suited for it."

Jimmy sat up just then, opened his eyes and sang in a clear, loud voice "LET THE MUSIC BE YOUR MASTER, WILL YOU HEED THE MASTER'S CALL?"

That wasn't Jimmy's voice. It was a strong, high tenor, the volume of which reverberated all through the chamber they were all in. Then the guitarist fell back to the bed, eyes closed, and was still. 

"What was that?" shrieked the lone female. "That wasn't--it wasn't his voice!"

Drew's eyes were huge. "We have heard the voice of the gods."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heyyy how's everyone? Still here? 
> 
> I'm weird, I know lol.


	7. Past, Present and Future

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The once and future Jimbert,
> 
> The end is the beginning is the end.
> 
> (Don't worry, I'm not done yet, lol)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please don't get sad, please don't get sad, please don't get sad
> 
> Damn but they're cute even old as fuck.
> 
> Also trying to remember some html to put drawrings up dammittttt

Soul Remains

6

Jimmy awoke, finding himself well-rested but sore, sat up to find he was nude under the covers in his bed. He was alone in the room, he found, so he slid out of bed and went in search of anyone else. He found his initiators in the kitchen, helping themselves to what was in the fridge and pantry. “He is arisen!” quipped Tristan, and raised an eyebrow at the fact Jimmy was naked.

“How are you feeling?” Anna asked, clad in one of his old housecoats.

“I’m…I’m ok,” he answered, as if surprised he was.

“You need to get your strength back,” advised Drew, sitting some cut-up fruit, buttered toast and coffee before the young man, who ate it with rare gusto. When he was finished, he wandered, still unclad, into his normal bedroom and dug through his old art supplies. The others looked at each other, shared a look, and decided to let him be for a while. 

Jimmy found one of his sketch pads, some charcoal, sat down on his bed and began to sketch, more and more intensely, using his fingers to soften lines and blend, his brow furrowed. It was like he was possessed; he couldn’t stop himself, and he didn’t want to, really. He found his old eraser, to block out mistakes and highlights, working more assuredly than he ever had in art school. When he was done, the trance seemed to lift, and he looked down at the pictures he’d made. He stared down at the figures in the pieces, one showing a king and a mage, one showing a Stag Lord and a Shaman, and so on. The King and Mage were old, venerable, wise, powerful looking.

Jimmy threw on some clothes and turned to find Anna staring at him from the doorway. “Channeled art?” she asked.

He gestured for her to come in, and she peered at the drawings, fascinated. “Is this what you Saw?”

“I think so, I don’t remember it all,” the guitarist answered. shaking his head as if to clear the cobwebs out. 

1972, Boleskine House  
Robert Plant looked out the windows of the manor house that used to belong to Aleister Crowley, as if searching for something he knew not what. After some time, he turned away to go see what Jimmy had gotten up to. He found him in one of the upstairs rooms being used to store a lot of Jimmy’s occult stuff, rifling through a box. “Here’s one of my grimoires.”

The blond man raised an eyebrow. “A spellbook? You writing spells?”

“A little, mostly notes, ideas, things I ran across as far as magic goes,” he replied, setting the leather-bound notebooks aside. He pulled out a beaten-up sketchbook, was surprised to see it after all this time. “Hello,” he said softly.

“Hmm?” queried the singer, who came to stand behind his husband. He watched as Jimmy opened the pages, there was some landscapes and still lifes he’d done while in art college, then he came upon the drawings he did right after the Ritual.

“Who’s that?” wondered Robert.

“I…it’s something I Saw, a vision I think.”

“Really? They’re quite good, that one looks Medieval, this one looks vaguely dark ages maybe?” After looking at it another minute, Robert gasped. “That one, looks like you, Jimjam.”

“You think so? But I’m not an old wizard, not yet anyway.”

“And this one, kinda looks like you, the shaman looking one.”

Jimmy squinted at the pieces, then realization dawned on him that the taller, curly haired man in the works was Robert. Things started to come together in his mind, and he didn’t want to answer a bunch of questions from his still-youthful and infinitely curious lover about what all this could mean, so he quickly closed the sketchbook and placed it back in the box. 

“Are you all right?” asked Robert, growing a bit worried.

“I’m fine, just thought of some other boxes I wanted to go through,” he fibbed, and closed the box. He sent Robert to make him some tea as the place was rickety and drafty, having been abandoned for a while before Jimmy purchased it. It was still being worked on and renovated. As soon as Robert was safely downstairs he went to his knees, a flood of images crowding his head, feeling like it was going to make his skull split. He and Robert would grow old together, or at least be together when they were wrinkled and bent, and Robert would accompany him on his last adventure, before the End.

But would it be the end, though? If they’d spent numerous lives together, would they not find each other again one these lives were over?

Some things perhaps humans were not meant to know. Was he meddling in something too dangerous? Knowledge and the ability to affect change in the world wasn’t bad, was it? 

After a few moments, the pressure in his head lessened and he got to his feet.

Morocco, 2042  
Robert got himself, Alexandra, Scarlett and Jimmy a transport to Agadir, which they’d been to before over the years, as a last stop before Jimmy and Robert continued on to the High Atlas Mountains, where a villa had been prepared for them. In their 90’s now, even Robert was feeling the weight of his age on him, though he still walked straight and sure. His hair was mostly grey now, as Jimmy’s was snow-white, but he leaned on Robert for balance. He refused canes, chairs or other walking assistance, preferring to feel himself against the one he loved above all others, though it was a pain in the ass for Robert at times when they went anywhere.

During the quiet ride in the electric transport, Jimmy stared out at the scenery. It never ceased to amaze him, fascinate him, old and sick as he’d become. His faded green eyes turned from the window to his spouses and what he thought of as a daughter, and he smiled, still the attractive charmer though close to being a centenarian. Scarlett and her daughter smiled back, the 15 year old Alexandra holding back tears as she knew Jimmy likely didn’t have long in this world.

Scarlett had left their mutual relationship for a few years to be with a fellow poet closer to her own age, but it ended sourly, and when she returned to Robert and Jimmy she was pregnant. They both accepted the child without reservation, and the public found it amusing that the two geezers were raising a daughter with their obscenely young partner at such an age. They never cared what the world at large thought, why start now? They followed the Music, that was their only Master, that and their own whims.

The Music now called them to the Atlas Mountains, a place they thought of fondly, a place that was for them alone.

Scarlett was now in her 50’s, a performer and artist in her own right, and she would be fine fiscally speaking after Jimmy was gone. Her heart, though? That remained to be seen, although she’d been preparing for this.

And Robert, well, despite a few slight strokes he recovered reasonably well from, he was still kicking. He had gotten quite forgetful, finding the increasingly frail but sharp Jimmy having to remind him of simple things. These past couple decades, though, he wouldn’t have traded for anything. He grasped Scarlett’s hand, and she squeezed it return, in support. “You sure you don’t want me to come with you?” she asked softly.

“Nah, this is for us alone, my darling,” the singer responded. “I hope it doesn’t offend.”

“I just want to help.”

“I can hear you,” grouched Jimmy. “You act like I’m already dead.”

“Mum just wants to help you both,” Alexandra pats Jimmy on his stooped shoulder. 

“I know, I just like to gripe.”

“He’s a wily old shit,” Robert said, loudly this time. “Did you hear that?”

“I’m sorry, did someone say something? All I can hear is the bullshit falling,” Jimmy says, then coughs.

“Fucker’s gonna outlive me, you wait and see,” sniffs Robert.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not sure where this is gonna go, not gonna lie, but I thought it incredibly adorable. thoughts?


	8. The Beginning is the End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One last journey for our wanderers in the wastelands.
> 
> Fulfilling the direction of the Music. One must heed the Call.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Old, tired, ornery, in need of a nap. Rock stars are people, too lol.

Soul Remains

8

The hotel at Agadir was small but still nice, with a lot of the political upheaval died down after the partial changeover from gasoline powered vehicles to electric and biodiesel and the fact most everyone now just wanted to get along. Despite her sadness Alexandra was excited, having never even been to Morrocco, and the ancient rock stars smiled indulgently at her questions and comments. Having hardly been around much for his daughter Carmen's childhood, Robert had found this a second chance. 

Strangely enough, the Aloof Wizard among them was no stranger to adopting children, as he'd adopted his second ex-wife's children, and he took to parenting Scarlett's daughter with aplomb despite his failing body. He made a big show of walking through the lobby by himself, only to collapse in the elevator against the thin frame of Scarlett, who caught and scolded him. "Bollocks," the guitarist coughed. "I can at least walk through a few feet in public. Robert can carry me the rest of the way to the bed if need be."

"Fuck you, you old goat," Robert barked at him. "I go on a cane half the time now from you hanging off me everywhere we go."

"Pop, be nice," the teenager pleaded. 

Robert rolled his watery blue eyes and sighed. "Sorry."

"Will wonders cease. The Golden God apologized for something," laughed Jimmy, as Scarlett and Robert held him up until the lift dinged. Then the pair helped him to the suites they were staying in.

When he was propped up on one of the couches, he motioned for Robert to come to him. Robert plopped beside the wizened little man and gazed kindly at him. "I know I put you through a lot," the white-haired man spoke quietly. "But I appreciate everything you do, love. You know this, don't you?"

Robert nodded his head, put a long arm around his husband. "I guess it's penance for me running away all the time, hurting you over and over."

"I did kinda get my own back, though," Jimmy chuckled.

"If you're referring to a certain Yorkshire bast--chap, wasn't he still living in Nevada or some such?"

"Rob, you remember, he passed away last year," the smaller man chortled. Robert couldn't remember what year it was half the time anymore.

"He did? I would've attended the funeral."

"Robert.."

"What? I wouldn't have did anything offensive," he said with mock high dignity. "I'm just pleased to know I outlived his ass. Heh."

"Really, Roblove. It's been more than half a century."

"I know, Jimmurs," the singer murmured. "But my mind isn't what it used to be. I remember things that happened 75 years ago like it was yesterday, and yet I couldn't tell you what I had for breakfast this morning."

"Booze and weed, you old hippie," snorted Jimmy.

After exploring the big swathe of the floor the extended Page-Plant household was occupying, Alexandra came dashing back to her fathers. "Pop, can we go to the market square? I wanna visit all the vendors with you! Please?" she exclaimed.

Robert smiled at her. "As soon as my assistant gets here, we'll go. You know I can't keep up with you, Sandi."

"Dad, will you be all right here for a bit?" the girl asked Jimmy.

"Oh, I'll be fine. Me and your Mum need to have a little time together, anyway."

When the minder, Robert and Alexandra departed for their outing, silence descended upon the room. Scarlett seated herself beside Jimmy, still statuesque and beautiful in the classic Romantic sense. She burst into tears, and he threaded his thin little arms around her. "Baby, don't cry. Come on, it'll be all right."

"I know this will be the last time I see you," she whispered. 

"No," Jimmy corrected her. "Gods willing, we will meet again."

"I want to believe that."

"You're stronger than you know, dear. But you have Robert and Sandi. And you'll be busy with my memoirs that will be released after I'm gone." He kissed her chastley on the lips, held her hand like some prim Victorian couple. "I should tell you what I have Seen," he murmured to her. "But maybe it's best you and most people don't know."

"I've seen some of the things you've written. About the Music, heeding its call and such."

"Do you know the love of Robert and I spans human history? No, I'm not being grandiose. If the visions of myself and Robert are to be believed, we have lived many lives together. I think you may be a part of it too, now."

Scarlett stared at him. Was he delusional? Suffering from dementia? But no, he was pretty lucid and earnest, even. 

"I leave behind my journals and sketches you haven't seen yet, and won't see until Robert carries out my wishes."

Scarlett snuggled against the ailing little body, her head against his chest, listening to the weakened heart beating. "I love you. Thank you for everything you've done for me and my girl."

"I love you too, sweet one. I don't want you to cry, now. I've had a good, long life, a happy one after Robert stopped wandering and you came back to us. Make sure Rob takes his pills, he forgets everything now."

Later that evening Robert and Sandi returned with all sorts of trinkets, gifts, and other items from the street vendors. The teen had taken some video with her phone and showed it to Jimmy on the holoscreen. The girl had dark red hair like her mother, but flashing dark eyes instead of Scarlett's liquid hazel ones, and she wasn't as thin. She would make a talented and beautiful woman, Jimmy thought proudly. He'd already made his last visits with his other children and grandchildren, most had accepted the inevitable natural fate of all mortals, even a rock god like Jimmy Page, would eventually come to an end. Tomorrow the pair would take one of the hoverlifts to the rental home in the Mountains they would stay in.

Jimmy Saw this fate back in 1967, though it took him much longer to piece it together. Even now, being only human, he didn't understand it all.

As he grew tired, Sandi quieted down and laid in his lap as she did when she was little, the man stroking her auburn hair fondly. 

"Now Alexandra, you're too big to be doing that," admonished her mother.

"It's fine, really," the man assured her. "Put on the vidscreen, it's too quiet."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know the routine, I thrive on attention and stuff lol.


	9. The End is not the End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Wheel rolls on...
> 
> The couple says goodbye.
> 
> Sads ahead!! But I think it's precious.
> 
> Reading my Latter Days series helps with some of the references.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for any feels, but I'm working through some loss and grief still of my own. This has been a revelatory thing for me.

Jimmy insisted they sleep in one big naked pile, for old times' sake, that night. It'd been a few years since any real hanky panky had went on, not that Robert hadn't found other ways occasionally to take care of Scarlett with mouth or hands. Nothing like that was happening tonight, however, since the mood was subdued and Jimmy fading each day. 

When they awoke, they had breakfast brought to them so Robert didn't have to half-carry the guitarist down to the restaurant, and Alexandra joined them in the huge bed and ate off everyone's else's dishes too. Robert wondered where she was putting it all, but she was a growing girl, after all. They received a holocall from Jimmy's doctor, begging them to come in so he could try other ways of extending the guitarist's life, but he refused. "You just want that regular paycheck," Jimmy snorted.

The 3D image projected from the smartphone shook its head. "It's sorta a habit for me to want to keep my patients alive," he responded. 

"There's been infections in my everywhere, including my fucking blood, I can't take any more antibiotics. Most of them don't work anymore, and the others are so strong I can't eat, I just throw up over and over, so no thank you."

"In that case, coupled with your damaged organs from past drug use, the time left to you is...short," the physician announces bluntly. "A little as days, a month, maybe two maximum, I'd say."

Jimmy sighed, shook his silver-haired head. "I know, I've known how a lot of this would play out. Thank you for your diligence, but I probably won't be returning to the UK, or anywhere else."

"Are you in any pain? Should I send prescriptions to your location?

"Not pain, really, just discomfort and weakness. I'm done with the medications."

"I wish you the best, Mr. Page. It looks like you have your family with you, that's good," the doctor speaks kindly. "Let me know if you need anything."

After the call, Sandi ran sobbing from the room, the full import of what this all means crushing down her again. She cast herself on the bed in her room, weeping noisily in the special adolescent way. Jimmy pulled himself upright and slapped away Robert who had came to his side to help him, and leaned against the nightstand, then the wall, taking a longer but anchored route to the girl's bedroom. His fine-boned hand he splayed against the wall or other objects to hold himself steady and upright, but he made his way to Sandi. He took the few open steps to the bed she was sprawled Robert-style across, and plopped down heavily. She glanced up to see him sitting beside her. "Dad, you shouldn't have walked all this way."

"Nonsense. I had to see about you."

"Why can't you keep trying to get well? I don't want you to leave us!" she demanded.

"There's no disease I have except old age, really. It's life, Sandi, it's natural. I've made my peace with it, we all have to. You have to take care of Rob and Scarlett for me, darling."

She raised up and he hugged her, still some strength left in his old bones. "I love you, Daddy."

"I love you, sweetheart. Always. Remember I told you this isn't the end, it's never the end?"

"The end is the beginning is the end," she recited, only half-understanding. "The beginning is the end is the beginning."

"Right. It's a big circle, the Wheel of Life."

Scarlett kissed Jimmy goodbye, reached up and melted herself against Robert, swallowing tears. She kissed him long and long, then whispered in his ear "If you need anything, just call. I'll be there, I'll call anyone you need. If he asks for me..at the, the end, call me. Please. Take care of him, Rob my lovey. Take care of yourself."

"You know I will, my sweet love. I'll text you every day, ok?"

She nodded, and Alexandra hugged Robert breathless, then, her face struggling to not cry, hugged her other father. They girls watched the pair board the transport which made little noise other than a buzzy thrum, and watched it head off into the distance, to the High Atlas Mountains.

It had been two days, spent laying in each other's arms, eating food from the well stocked pantry and kitchen, sitting in the sun and enjoying the winds, and comfortable silences. They talked off and on, about their long and fruitful lives, both together and apart. "I suppose we wasted so much time," Robert had said at last, as they sat watching the sun sink under the horizon. "Or I did, anyway."

"Not really wasted, I don't think," Jimmy responded. "We couldn't have continued as we were even if Bonzo hadn't died. And I could't keep you in a cage, though I wanted to. You were made to be free, to fill the world with your light like the Sun."

"I love you, Jimmy. I never stopped, and I never will," the singer said fervently.

"I love you, Rob, forever. This is so nice, up here. The Music usually knows what its about."

"Yes," sighed Robert, grasping Jimmy's clammy hand, which seemed to grow colder each day. 

That night Jimmy snuggled into Robert's warmth as per usual, but kissed his love over and over with a fierce need that hadn't been there for some time. He seemed to need the touch, the comfort, and Robert was happy to oblige, though the guitarist was hardly able to do anything further.

WARNING: THIS IS WHERE IT GETS THE REALLY REAL SADS. Keep in mind this is fictional-future-Robert-and-Jimmy and not real or wished for. Ok!

A week into their stay, Jimmy had become immobile, unable to get out of bed, or even sit up by himself. Robert paced the other rooms, the tears having finally come again. Now it wasn't a concept, ,a future that hadn't arrived yet, it was happening now, and he had to find a way to handle it, for Jimmy. The older man could still talk, though it was so soft Robert had to strain to understand. "Robert," he was saying. "We are one, my love, my darling, my beautiful boy. Since I first saw you, when I first heard you, I was yours."

Robert crawled into the bed with him, curled his big, meaty body around Jimmy as if he could protect him from the inevitable. "You reached out your hand, you mysterious stranger, and I took it. I would've followed you anywhere," the singer said to that. "Nobody was as perfect and beautiful as you, my sorceror."

Evening wore on to night, and occasionally Jimmy would speak, telling him some things Robert already knew, but some things he'd never told Robert before. The longing, the loneliness after Zeppelin split up, the realization that Robert no longer relied upon him, had found his own way in the world, was now truly a man and a law unto himself, and Jimmy grieved. He grieved that harder than he'd grieved even Bonzo's death or the loss of his parents, or the breakup of his marriages. Only now, had he even whispered these things from his dark heart to anyone, let alone Robert.

"I'm tired and thirsty, Roblove," Jimmy whispered.

Robert brought him water, which he drank carefully, the taller man propping his head up. "Rest, Jimmy. I'll be here. I'm here, love, I'm here." Jimmy drifted off, cradled by the familiar warmth of Robert.

_My Lady d'Arbanville, why do you sleep so still?  
I'll wake you tomorrow  
And you will be my fill, yes, you will be my fill_

_My Lady d'Arbanville, why does it grieve me so?  
But your heart seems so silent  
Why do you breathe so low, why do you breathe so low _

__

__

_My Lady d'Arbanville, why do you sleep so still?_  
I'll wake you tomorrow  
And you will be my fill, yes, you will be my fill*

__

__

Robert knew. He knew when he awoke that morning he was gone, his oldest friend, bandmate, lover, husband. He looked at the face so beautiful and at peace, unafraid, untouched by time now. He was sad, overwhelmingly so, but he knew this was only temporary. Jimmy knew, but most importantly, Robert knew, from his own experience. He closed his eyes...he could still hear the Music. He smiled as tears fell. The Music. 

It called its acolyte home. It would call him home soon enough, and they would walk down into the valley, hand in hand.

They would ride the untamed horses across the plains, pick the apples from the sacred trees.

They would sail upon the oceans uncharted, paint pictures from their minds.

They would be brave and fight any who would constrain them.

They would make the Music and be the Music, having set it forth upon the world with their hands and bodies.

Robert hit the button on his phone, listened to it ring. He'd refused to get the all-in-one holograph models, just as he'd hated getting a smartphone when they became popular. "Scarlett? My dear, yes. He's gone. Yes, I'm fine, actually. I'm good. No," he paused, something prickling his awareness. "The Tuareg are coming, they will help me. Yes, the magick," he chuckled. "It's at work, love. This is Jimmy we're talking about."

***

*Lyrics to Lady d'Arbanville by Cat Stevens. I thought it apt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is still not the end I don't think. 
> 
> I hope this turned out ok.
> 
> I know what it feels like to sleep beside a dying man you love more than anything. My husband was a lot like future-fictional-Jimmy lol.


	10. Samhain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Let's revisit our Lords of Afallach and see how they're doing! 
> 
> It's Halloween time in Avalon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bonfires and sex! 
> 
> You've been warned.

Soul Remains

10

Now it was Samhain, the Ending of the old year and the beginning of the new year, where the Summer King lays down his rule for the Winter King. This was reflected in the reality for the people of the Summer Country for they were ruled by a Dark Mage and a Sun Lord, Morgan and Rigovet. The sacred temple of Avalon, for time now uncounted, had been a site for the ritual celebration of the thinning of the Veil between the worlds, between the land of the living and the land of the dead. The Wheel of the Year had circled once again, and the bonfires were lit.

The people of the countryside were dressed in garish costumes and scary masks, to ward off malevolent spirits and beings that had slipped into our world from the otherworld. Livestock was culled, leaving only those that could be safely kept and fed through the coming winter months. Some of the meat was used for the Samhain feast, the rest would be cured to keep for the winter. Tonight was a time for looking ahead, for divination, for throwing your worries and evils into the fire. Sticks were carved with the spellcaster's intent, then cast into the bonfires to release the energy and intent, or to consume bad luck. 

The smoke and light from the fires could be seen even through the constant fog for miles, all over the countryside. There were those Romano-Brits who had converted to Christianity and had abandoned these ways, choosing to stay indoors praying for the souls of those who had passed on the previous year. Most continued their lives as their folk always had, but some, in increasing numbers, felt that the two Lords of Afallach who governed here, were not only pagan but their relationship with one another was unholy. Two men carrying on so, it wasn't right according to some people's interpretation of their religion. Raising the next in line, Rigovert's niece Rianna, with no mother, it just wasn't done in their eyes, but they could do nothing for now but grumble, and watch the bonfires from their windows.

"Hear me!" called Rigovert over the crowd, his strong, clear voice ringing out among the throngs, who quieted down. He was dressed in ceremonial robes, gold circlet around his forehead, thick gold torq around his neck. "The Wheel of the Year has turned once again, bringing Samhain, the Summer's Ending, heralding the Dark Half of the Year."

The worshippers whooped their acknowledgement.

"Give reverence to the Moon King, who rules the Dark Half of the year."

Morgan stepped forward to the cheers of the crowd, his arms raised. "I am the one who speaks for the Raven Goddess! I am the one who clears away the old to bring forth the new! I am the one whose decay becomes the fertility the Sun King needs to bring forth Life! I am Winter King! I am of darkness but we don't fear the darkness; we light the fires that grew so low!"

Then animals were driven between the several large bonfires to consecrate them, followed by people running through the smoke, some even leaping over the crackling flames.

Let the fires purify, sanctify.

After the ritual, the drunken revelry continued on into the night, but R and Morgan retired to their chambers, their blood fire in their veins now, needing to possess the other carnally.

Morgan, fifteen years younger than his husband, especially felt the pull of the energies raised. When they shut the door to their chambers, Rigovet drank in the sight of the slender Pictish mage. Black hair, parts of it braided in little strands around his face, while the rest hung free in shiny waves, close cropped beard. The soft, full lips pulling into a grin as he looked over the taller man staring back at him. The alabaster skin that shone under the moonlight as he shed his clothes, already having doffed the mask that had been used to frighten away the evil spirits roaming that magical night. Lean, slender, long legs and tiny waist, he managed to be both waifish and fiercely masculine.

Rigovet let fall his robes as well, revealing a body Morgan could never have his fill of. A warrior with bunched muscles and scars decorating the golden flesh, none of it marred the effect of this Golden God. His poofy, curly blond hair was shaved into a mohawk, his only adornment now the heavy Celtic torq that proclaimed his high status among his people. He was taller than his mate, a lion to Morgan's panther, strong arms, calloused hands from swordplay from a young age, a face as radiant as the sun.

"It's my half of the year now," Morgan said coyly. "I think we should start the Moon King's reign with you getting on your knees."

"Oho, me obey an impertinent peasant?" R raised his eyebrow. "I may need some convincing."

Morgan embraced his love, kissed him deeply. "I have my ways," he breathed. The druid ran his hand down Rigovet's chest and abdomen, down, further, to lightly grasp the stiffening manhood he sought. He smiled at R's intake of breath, then leaned forward to kiss and nuzzle his neck as he slowly, lazily stroked him. The mage pleasured him like this for a bit before husking out "I need to be inside you, love," in his ear. By that point he was ready to comply, getting on the bed on his hands and knees.

Morgan joined him, first sliding his nimble hands from Rigovet's hips, along his sides, caressing him, then pinching a nipple, but not hard. R felt his anticipation rise as his lover kissed the back of his neck and shoulders, then he felt Morgan's hardness against his asscheek, then the mage was stroking him from behind. Oh, the tease! The Sun King could hardly take any more when he finally felt the younger man work himself into R's entrance. "Ahhh! Yesss," the warrior hissed.

"Did I hurt you?"

"Yes but it's so good. I need you, please.."

Morgan pushed himself all the way in with one hard thrust, eliciting a growl of both pleasure and pain from his husband. He began moving, slowly, finding a rhythm with Rigovet who met his thrusts eagerly. He knew when the blond man threw his head back and cried out, that he was hitting him where he needed. He then methodically pounded him, not too fast, not yet. He was enjoying this so much, he loved breaking down the nobleman's proper and dignified front, seeing him meeting his penetrating pushes, howling Morgan's name in complete abandon, it was an amazing and orgasmic thing to witness.

"Oh, oh, I need it faster! Harder!" He gasped out, begging Morgan for the sweet release.

After a moment he gripped R's narrow hips and plowed into him, harder and faster, groans now escaping his own lips. Rigovet couldn't bear it, the indescribable pleasure, the joy at giving himself up, Morgan hitting that special place. R's huge cock strained painfully, then he was there, his balls emptying their load, and he spurted, covering the bedsheets and his belly with his essence. He screamed out, a musical wail that echoed all over the bedchamber.

It was overwhelming, Morgan thrust savagely a few more times and he cried out his own climax, sending his hot jizz deep inside his lover.

Rigovet collapsed on the bed, with Morgan panting on top of him, trying to both catch their breath. "How was that, O Winter King?" Rigovet asked after a moment. 

"That'll do," he joked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Weeehaaa howm I doing?


	11. Jesus Make Up My Dying Bed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robert and the Tuareg start the journey with the Musician's body.
> 
> The venerable Golden God receives a most unexpected shock.
> 
> There is hope and joy with sadness as the Music plays.

Robert was sitting on the front porch when the Tuareg caravan rolled up, complete with camels and horses and wagons and a few hovertransports. He'd had contact a few times with this tribe since the Page/Plant Unledded days, the same tribe he and Jimmy had first encountered in 1972. Their leader was now a matriarch named Sura, descended from both Lalla (who they'd met their first trip to Morocco) and Basil, who had taken a liking to Jimmy. Sura herself and a few other females came with the group; women usually didn't make such trips, but it was a special occasion. 

Robert greeted them in Tamasheq, their tongue, as he'd picked it up with Berber and Arabic over the many years he'd lived. Sura was a middle aged woman, attractive, wrapped in sumptuous, colorful fabrics, with thick black hair and hazel eyes. "The fabled Yellow-haired Traveler is here once again," she smiled at him, then gathered him in a firm embrace. "My sorrow for your loss, old friend. May I see him?"

"Of course," the tall, ancient man replied, and led her inside. He'd brushed the silver hair of his husband till it shone, dressed him impeccably as he'd always been in life, arranged his arms crossed over his abdomen. He appeared he was sleeping, with none of the discomfort and frustration he'd borne the past while as his body wound down.

"My grandmother, Basil, never stopped talking about the Westerner, the Musician," Sura smiled in remembrance. Both she and Takama, Robert's Tuareg fling, had married well and their families had prospered. "He looks so wise, so..perfect."

"Yes, he was," Robert said, his voice hitching. 

The Tuareg, the Blue Men of the Desert, set up a quick camp as they knew their numbers were too great for the little villa. They were so named for the indigo-dyed veils the men wore to protect their faces, and also to shield themselves out of respect to strangers and their womenfolk. The women went proudly unveiled, with makeup to enhance their great beauty.

Sura hugged the singer again, then told him there was someone he needed to meet. Puzzled, he followed her back outside where an older woman and a young man, probably not even twenty, stood. The woman stepped forward and stared up into his weathered face, with large blue eyes, which wasn't common among the Tuareg. "So it is you, Golden One," she said in a mixture of Tamasheq and English.

"I'm sorry, who are you?"

"I am Illi. Your daughter. And this is your great-grandson Munatas," she gestured at the tall young man, who unwrapped his veil to reveal a bronze-skinned face with gorgeous blue eyes and long, shiny black curls.

"Oh, oh, what?" Robert cried, and nearly fell over. Munatas and Sura caught him and helped him to the chair on the porch. "How can--nobody ever told me, all this time..."

"My mother Takama didn't want to leave her home, and didn't want you to take me away. So she married and became a silversmith and jewelry maker and had more children," Illi explains. "She told Idir and others not to tell you. But she is long gone now, and I wanted to see my real father, and have my grandson meet his famous grandfather."

Robert appeared like he was ready for a heart attack, stroke, or both, but thankfully none of that happened. "All this time, I had another daughter," he mumbled to himself. "I would've wanted you in my life, had I known," he looked up at the woman with his eyes, who had passed this new trait down the line of the Tuareg. "I can't...I'm trying to process, I'm sorry."

"It's all right," Munatas said, smiling a lopsided smile at Robert. "This has to be a shock."

"It's probably a shock for you, no doubt hearing the stories of this Western singer and his looks to see this broken down old man before you."

"I'm not disappointed," the young man assures him. "I can see why women loved you."

"May we pay our respects to the Musician?" Illi asks. Robert nods his assent, and the woman and her grandson go inside.

"Will wonders never cease," he said softly. "I've lost the one who was part of my soul, but I have a whole new family suddenly."

"There is a reason behind everything," Sura says to that. "When you are ready, we will wrap Jimmy for travel and take him to Agadir for you. It would be our honor."

"Thank you. Jimmy's children and grandchildren will want to see him, and he's being buried back in England."

_In my time of dying  
Don't want nobody to mourn  
All I want for you to do  
Is take my body home  
Well, well, well, so I can die easy  
Well, well, well, so can die easy_

Halfway down the pass the line of travelers were met by a rented hoverlift that came to a spinning halt, and a slender, red haired figure jumped out and dashed to Robert. "Scarlett! What are you doing?" Robert yelled as she jumped into his arms.

"I didn't want you to do this by yourself," she said in between smothering his weathered face with kisses. "You need family with you. And they need you."

Sandi exited the transport and joined them, the teen squeezing him with surprising strength while sobbing. "Oh, sweetheart, my darling girl," the singer crooned to her. The three of them were weeping, keening their loss unabashedly. He looked up at his wife and said, "It turns out I did have family here with me."

Illi and Munatas waved at the newcomers. "Jesus, Rob, what are you, the Sperminator?" She cried, then the trio were laughing in the midst of their grief. Scarlett met Robert's daughter, now in her 70s, and her grandson Munatas who was 22. The redhead laughed again when it was brought up that she was decades younger than her stepdaughter.

"You both are very beautiful," Illi told Scarlett and Alexandra solemnly.

"I could say the same for you both," the poet responded. The ladhad removed his veil to let the ladies see him, as it was the polite thing to do amongst Westerners. "Munatas looks so much like Robert when he was young, only with black hair. Will you be coming with us, back to the UK?"

The Tuareg woman dropped her eyes, as if capitulating. "I want to spend my father's last days with him, but I have never left the desert..I'm, I'm afraid."

"You must come with us," Robert entreated. "I want to know the rest of my family in my last years. Please."

"I will come, myself and Munatas." The lad was overjoyed, hugged his grandmother before embracing his great-grandfather and then Scarlett, then kissed her right on the lips.

"I can believe you fathered this line," Scarlett shot a pointed glance at Robert, who was wearing a shit-eating grin.

"Well, let's get rolling," he declared. "Jimmy wanted to only be fashionably late to his own funeral."

Scarlett nodded--this was the last journey of the Wizard, the Musician, but their work was only beginning.

****

[2020 Jimmy](http://fav.me/de1mzi9)

[2020 Robert](http://fav.me/de1l96a)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still not the end, methinks. Wait till Scarlett gets into the locked away journals and records and whatnot.
> 
> Also, let me know how the drawings of recent Planty and Pagey turned out !


	12. The Wheel of Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Great Wheel spins ever and ever on, endlessly repeating.
> 
> The Cycle continues. Life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As Ian Malcom said, Life finds a way lol.
> 
> Robert and Jimmy don't stay separated for long.

Soul Remains

12

2052, Tower House, UK

Scarlett looked out the window of the room facing the front yard, smiled as she saw her granddaughter romping and playing, the six year old’s mother, Alexandra, sipping tea in a lounge chair, watching. Scarlett felt the girl had been too young at 19 to be having a child, but Sandi had adapted well, and was managing artists and bands already, and quite effectively, too. Robert had at least gotten to spend the first few months of Gretchen’s life with her before he passed away, dying content and surrounded by family. The little girl had black curls, sharp green eyes, rosy cheeks and an inquisitive nature, but at the moment was playing with a boy, somewhat smaller than her. Must be the new neighbor’s kid, she thought.

She went outside and pulled up an outdoor chair next to her daughter. “Hey, is that the Simons’ little boy?” she asked as the children were romping with abandon.

“Mhm,” Sandi answered, checking her portable view screen for the news.

“Munatas still on that festival tour thing? Bringing all the obscure musical traditions to light?” the older woman snickered.

“Yeah, he feels like he’s continuing his great-grandfather’s work,” Alexandra spoke, then looked up from the device. She knew Robert and Scarlett had been upset she’d gotten pregnant by his descendent, but she reasoned, she wasn’t actually related to him by blood. Perhaps someday, they’d even get married. Someday.

“I think he’d like that,” admitted Scarlett. “Hey, Gretchen! Come and bring your friend! I’d like to meet him.”

The little girl dashed over, the younger boy, close to two years her junior, trailed behind her. “This is Kenneth,” Gretchen said, and the little boy stepped closer.

The tow-headed youngster had short, golden ringlets all over his head and big blue eyes that stared at Scarlett, like he was piercing her soul. “Are you Gretchie’s grandmommy?”

“Yes, I am, Kenneth.”

“You the Red Lady,” he said, almost to himself.

“Oh?”

“I knew you, once upon a time like in the fairy tales,” he announced, very sure of himself.

Sandi and Scarlett simply stared at the little boy. Gretchen had spoken of strange things like that before, with the adults suspecting she was talking of possible past lives. “Come closer,” Scarlett murmured, and the little boy, unafraid, came right up to her. She laid a hand on his round, blond head, and felt it.

“Can you, can you tell me more?” she asked, wanting to be sure.

“We lived in a big house, like the one you live in there,” he nodded toward Tower House. “But sometimes there was sheep and fields, like somewheres else. But you were so pretty, Red Lady. I mean, um, you’re pretty now, but you were younger then. I was older. Old, old, an old man, but I was happy.”

Scarlett wiped her eyes that were tearing up, and her daughter laid a comforting hand on her skinny arm.

“Did I say something wrong, ma’am? Mum and Dad says I talk too much about scary stuff. They say it’s not real.”

“No, no, Kenneth. You can call me Scarlett,” she tells the child. “Well, you and Gretchen run and play. I’m sure your parents will be by for you soon. And Kenneth,” she added as the children were turning away. “It’s real.” The boy smiled, a bright, lopsided grin.

They ran and laughed like they’d known each other for a lifetime. Or several.

“Was that…was that Robert?” Sandi whispered.

“Yes. They’ve found each other again, already,” Scarlett said.

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos, thoughts, discussion, story ideas, etc welcome.
> 
> There will be more coming, as I've referenced the Raven Priest and the Sunlord in several of my works on here.


End file.
